


my head plays it over and over

by CatalpaWaltz



Series: Want For Nothing [3]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Lingerie, M/M, Porn Watching, Want For Nothing!verse, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 19:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8114671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatalpaWaltz/pseuds/CatalpaWaltz
Summary: He thinks sometimes, afterwards, about how their encounters might go differently. But he can never quite picture it. They are how they are. (WFN!verse, pre-AUEF, Ben and Arnold early days)





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this came about because of the delightful wave in Ben-in-lingerie prompts and fills on tumblr over the last week or so, which really made me think that, as wonderful an image as it was, WFN!Ben would probably be way too much of a square to enjoy himself like that. But that idea had a real appeal of it's own. And here we are. 
> 
> Please be aware, lots of tangled consent issues ahead. Like...really tangled.

_ New Haven, Connecticut.  _

_ September, 2013 _

 

They're starting to settle into a bit of a routine. Ben feels, if not confident, at least a little less lost than he had at the beginning. He's gradually coming to learn Benedict's moods, his likes and dislikes and irrational pet peeves. And Benedict has been so patient with him, so accommodating. At least as he sees it. 

He gives Ben something to look forward to at the end of the day, after his hours of tedious work and the ceaseless hum of anxiety that simmers underneath his conscious thought: that he should be here when all his friends were out making their way in the world, that he was neither good enough or clever enough or disciplined enough to take proper advantage of the opportunities he had been given.

Benedict knows, somehow, how to quiet that insidious voice: in the sharp, golden haze of wanting and being wanted, Ben thinks he might be free from it, at least for a little while. Might be.

Like now. They're on the couch in Benedict's living room, Ben laid out over the buttery brown leather cushions, the only sound in the room coming from the wet, slick slide of their mouths, the only light the occasional fleeting glow of a passing car's headlights shining through the window. Benedict has a hand in his hair, fingertips raking over his scalp with just the perfect amount of pressure. He slips his other hand between their bodies, giving Ben something to grind against, something to get him started, and his mind is just blissfully, achingly blank. He isn't thrown out of the strangely meditative headspace even when Benedict starts divesting him of his clothes, tugging his belt free, popping the buttons on his shirt with one deft hand.

His outfit's scattered in a loose pile beside the coffee table and Ben anticipates being directed into the bedroom any second now, when Benedict pulls away. 

"Hey sweetheart," he breathes into Ben's ear, shifting his weight off his arms. "It's too quiet in here. Do you want to go pick something out to put on?" 

Ben's momentarily confused, until Benedict gestures vaguely at the entertainment center and the shelves of DVDs stacked behind closed cabinet doors. Oh. Right. 

They'd done this before, once or twice, but Ben had not yet been a part of the process of choosing what made it onto the screen. It's not as though he's...opposed to the idea. There's an appeal, a certain sharpness and urgency that it lends to their nights in. And anyway it's not as though the idea has the power to shock him. He's quite sure he's watched about as much porn over the course of his life as the average man his age. 

Well, maybe a little below average. A lot below average? He isn't sure. Sometimes, something about the brightly-lit sets makes him feel as though he were the one under the spotlights, makes him feel just a little too unprotected, a little too exposed. 

He stands up from the couch, immediately missing the warmth of the cushions and Benedict's body as he's hit with the breeze from the air conditioner, cranked up high against the heavy heat of the night outside. He crouches down before the shelves, and tries to ignore the weight of Benedict's gaze against his back, which he can swear he almost feels, and sets to the task of choosing. 

Benedict is pretty catholic in his own tastes. The covers run the gamut from clean-cut guys in suits and uniforms of various kinds, women in elegant clothes and impossibly tall heels, packs of fraternity and sorority kids in what pass for alluring arrangements. Nothing too imaginative, as far as Ben can tell. No elaborate premises or intricate plots, no dominatrices or scenes that look like they take place in some pseudo-dungeon, which Ben is pretty sure he's grateful for. 

He hadn't expressed any surprise when Ben had confessed that he wasn't quite so flexible in his preferences as Benedict himself, just shrugged it off. Far more of the covers on the shelf feature women than not, and Ben would be tempted to choose one of these for Benedict's sake, if he doesn't know for a fact that it would absolutely throw him out of the mood. In the end, he picks something half at random, certain that the moment he starts thinking about it too hard, he will definitely get stuck in the weeds and will never actually be able to come to a decision. 

Benedict says nothing, just raises an eyebrow as he gets a look at Ben's choice. He reaches for the remote, switches the set on. 

"Go ahead," he says, urging Ben to drop in the disk. 

No time is wasted, and the scene hasn't even faded from black before the sounds of energetic kissing come over the top-of-the-line speaker system. Ben would be happier just letting it all drone on as background noise, in fact feels a little petulant at having to content himself with only a share of Benedict's attention, but he's not permitted to pick up where they left off when he returns to the couch. With the exception of a hand resting casually on Ben's knee, they aren't touching at all as they sit facing the screen, Ben, still naked, struggling not to shiver visibly. Since he apparently doesn't have another option, Ben turns his attention to the TV. 

In the frame are two guys, one red-haired and slight, the other blonde and a bit more substantial, both young, clean-shaven, and extremely enthusiastic. There's no attempt at any kind of stilted dirty talk, which Ben is thankful for. Instead they just stand with their arms around each other, kissing against a generic, beige-painted wall. 

Benedict's hand on his knee gives a gentle, almost imperceptible squeeze, and Ben turns his head toward him, momentarily hopeful. But Benedict still faces the screen, the light from the TV reflected in his eyes. 

The requisite amount of time for kissing apparently met, the two actors begin to undress each other with breathless urgency. And Ben has to give them credit: the hands that slide under shirts and work at belt buckles actually shake with a convincing play at real nerves, the shy smiles they flash at each other displaying a perfect facsimile of tender sweetness.

He's only given pause once they've finally shimmied out of their too-tight clothes and stepped apart from each other. The camera pans over and down to reveal that the red-headed one, under his jeans, had been concealing a pair of black silk panties, a garter belt, and stockings, all in sheer, shining black, striking against the pallor of his freckled skin.

Ben's mouth falls open just a little. Benedict's hand slides with commendable self-restraint from Ben's knee to the inside of his thigh. Ben, for his part, is getting to the limit of his own patience, more than ready to just turn aside, clamber over the couch and into Benedict's lap. He's done forgoing all but a fraction of Benedict's attention. He wants his whole focus, wants Benedict's hands on him, wants him to take Ben's face between his palms in that way he does that makes Ben feel more centered than he ever has in his life. 

" _ Watch _ ," Benedict insists, sensing his impatience. So Ben does. 

The one in the garter belt stands, filling the frame of the shot, while the blonde kneels at his feet, running reverent hands over the nylons, tracing his fingers up the line of the garter ribbons before leaning forward to mouth lazily over the line of the black satin waistband, and then lower. 

Ben feels his breath catch in his throat. It's certainly...something, though he can't help but cringe at the terrible lines they're reciting, which aren't to his taste at all. He can't tell if he's being turned on by the video in spite of himself, or by the fact that Benedict's hand has crept to the juncture of his hip and thigh, until Ben can feel the pulse point there jump under his fingertips. But whatever the cause, it's enough to spur him to take a chance, and swing around to straddle Benedict's lap, obscuring his view.

Benedict's low, pleased chuckle is enough to block the sounds of the TV from Ben's ears, and he's temporarily satisfied. 

* * *

Later that night, Ben sprawled across Benedict's sheets, sweat cooling on his skin, his breathing gradually returning to its normal pace. He's closed his eyes against the bright overhead light flooding the bedroom, sure he can feel the beginnings of a headache throbbing at his temples.

A shadow passes over his face, the light blotted out. He opens his eyes, blinks slowly. Smiles.

"Hey," says Benedict, leaning over him, his hair falling into his eyes in a way that Ben has decided he likes very much. "Are you good?"

"I'm great," Ben insists, with a flutter of foreboding. He is by now experienced enough to know when he's about to be gently nudged out the door, and he silently readies himself to leave the warm, comfortable haven of Benedict's bed, as much as he'd just as soon never move from this spot ever again.

"So I was thinking," Benedict drawls, dropping a hand to trace a lazy fingertip over the inside of Ben's bicep, "you would look really incredible in that get up, from earlier. Or something like it."

Ben frowns. What get up? But his memory soon supplies the answer: sharp lines of black silk against freckled skin, the slick sound of a hand gliding over taut stockings.

Oh. Surely he can't mean --

"What do you say?" Benedict asks, giving Ben no time to think about it, no room to maneuver.

Honestly, Ben already knows he would feel patently ridiculous. But it's not like it would be  _ such _ a hardship. Surely he could put up with it for one night? And if it made Benedict look at him like that, with the same open admiration, the same hunger, as the actor in the video? Wouldn't that be worth it?

_ Say you're not sure. Say you'll have to think about it. Say no, not yet, not now. _

"Yeah, sure," Ben stammers. "That would be -- that would be nice."

Benedict grins wide, ducks his head to press his lips to the underside of Ben's jaw in appreciation.

Ben even gets to stay the night.

* * *

The box shows up at his door a week later, unmarked and unadorned. He's nervous to open it, but he knows if he leaves it in his closet or in the corner of his bedroom, he's only going to be able to imagine the worst.

In the end, he supposes it could have been worse. The bit of lace-trimmed silk nestled in the layers of tissue paper is actually a bit more substantial than he might have thought. Really, there's no way of knowing for sure until he puts the things on, and that prospect is just…

And never mind the rest of the ensemble, the logistics of which he can only be baffled by.

He feels utterly at sea. What is the protocol for this kind of thing? When is he supposed to wear it, and for how long? What if none of it fits? What if it itches unbearably, or everyone can somehow tell that he's got it on under his normal clothes? Ben swallows hard, even more mired in doubts than he had been when this had gotten started.

He'll figure it out, he assures himself. How hard could it possibly be?

* * *

Friday night, Benedict calls him to confirm that they're still on for dinner.

"Did anything come for you in the mail this week?" he asks, without subtlety. And just like that, Ben knows what is expected of him.

He stands in front of the mirror a few minutes before he's due to be picked up, shifting a little in his slacks. He hadn't looked at himself as he put it all on, hadn't dared.  The novel sensation of fabric bunched up where it's never been, of straps pressing insistently against his skin is certainly going to take time to get used to. But it's not intolerable.

Later that night, the plaid button-down and khakis he'd put on in the dark are removed under the bright lights of Benedict's bedroom. Ben is right on the borderline of having had too much to drink, his nerves having led him to forget not to let the waiter be so generous with his pours, but he feels steady enough on his feet. He doesn't know if Benedict expects him to put on a show, but he already feels too exposed, too strung-out, too...everything. He can't meet Benedict's eyes, has to fight the overwhelming urge to curl in on himself.

Benedict doesn't say anything for a long time, but he does step forward to put his hands on Ben's shoulders, to push them up and back until Ben is standing tall again, tutting over his poor posture.

"Of course, we could always get you something for that," Benedict muses, half to himself, his fingers resting lightly at the lower curve of Ben's back. "In blue, maybe. To go with your eyes."

He doesn't step away after that, or stop touching him, and Ben tries to relax into it. Takes a long, deep breath.

"Fuck, you look so good like this," breathes Benedict, lips not even an inch from his ear. "I knew you would. Shit, I bet you kept it on all day. I bet you couldn't wait for me to see."

"Yes," Ben lies, because anything else would be entirely anathema to the moment.

Benedict runs a hand from Ben's back, up the line of his neck, into his hair. He threads his fingers through the strands, grips, tugs  _ just _ a little, tilting Ben's head to one side to accentuate the line of his throat.

Ben lets his eyes drift shut. He'd decided weeks ago that he likes being handled like this, likes letting go of the wheel for a while, content to be still and let Benedict pose and posture him as he pleases. It's easier this way.  _ Better _ .

He thinks sometimes, afterwards, about how their encounters might go differently, but he can never quite picture it. They are how they are.

It's not like the video. Benedict doesn't go down on his knees before him, doesn't look up at him with that worshipful awe that Ben thinks he might have liked to see, but he is still undeniably tender with Ben when he draws him up to straddle his lap, running his hands over the black silk, tracing his fingers along the scalloped lace trimming. Ben lets his words wash over and around him, trying to let them roll off like water on rock, trying not to hear them.

_ You're so gorgeous baby girl, all wrapped up for me. Jesus you're so fucking hot, look at you. You know I've been thinking about this all week, couldn't wait to get my hands on you, couldn't wait to get inside you. I know you couldn't wait either, I could tell. The second I saw you I knew you'd want this. Tell me, baby. Tell me how bad you want it. _

Ben keeps his eyes closed, keeps his breathing measured and even, focus ruthlessly honed in to just the feel of Benedict's lips on the skin of his neck, Benedict's hand on his cock. And it's good, he tells himself.

It's perfect.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title from, appropriately, "All Dolled Up In Straps" by the National. 
> 
> In case anyone is interested, here is the ensemble that Arnold purchases (sans bra): http://www.laperla.com/us/cfilpd0022151-nr0262.html


End file.
